


thalassa

by Anonymous



Category: Food Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Freeform, Multi, purple writing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-03 13:26:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17284886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: thank you so much for the comments and kudos! i hope you'll continue enjoying this self-indulgent writing!!ps. if you have any pairing you want to see you can mention it in the comments and i'll see how i can include them in the story (i can't promise but i'll try to do my best!!)





	1. rosé

when you left your old life behind, riding away from your deceased attendant’s manor in a wagon, you didn’t imagine that you would be living the life you now knew.

you sat on the cliff behind your new attendant’s restaurant and smoked a pipe, a habit you picked up from peking duck not long after you were summoned. such a placid life became a new normal—your attendant rarely fought unless she deemed it absolutely necessary, and even though you thought that you would hate it (you were born to fight, after all—it was all in your blood, your _warm_ blood), a quiet life like this proved to be just what you needed after what you went through. it gave a chance for you to heal. you thought that life had a way of giving you what you needed and not what you wanted.

from your spot on the dewy grass you could see the sea in front of you and hear the chatter of the other food souls behind you. the wind carried saltwater mist to your eyes and you instinctively blinked. you thought of how you had to borrow red wine’s handkerchief last week when your eyes teared up from the dust you unsettled in the storeroom.

red wine’s handkerchief smelled just like him: earthy rose, crushed grape peels, subtly smoky oakwood.

you started adding dried rosebuds to your pipe after that day just so that you could imitate his scent again (albeit in the vaguest sense). your pipe emitted sweet smoke in wispy tendrils that dissipated as soon as it touched the atmosphere. perhaps a metaphor of your relationship with red wine. always close enough to touch and feel but never lingering long enough for you to be satisfied. on your earlier days here, you thought that you were turning insane because you wanted more of that. it was not until you overheard tiramisu explaining about love to a mesmerised tangyuan one day that you understood that it might be love (and love could turn people insane, you heard skewer quip—tiramisu only laughed).

your daydream popped like a bubble when you heard pudding and omurice arguing over something in the restaurant. a layer of giggles draped over their increasingly heated spat—hawthorne ball’s gleeful scream, tangyuan’s energetic laugh, strawberry daifuku’s hearty chuckles. pots and pans added harmony to the cacophony. you could smell the sweet yam buns yuxiang were steaming amidst the smoke from your pipe. it was mundane, regular and rather blasé—a life you thought you would only know from afar.

and it was exactly what you needed.

you felt a hand on your shoulder and you could smell rose. when you looked up, you were met by a pair of red eyes. you could see the twinkle in them.

he said nothing and just pulled you up by your hand. perhaps this life had mellowed him down too somehow. you could feel the pulse under his skin where it met yours. you had been told that you had warm blood. you thought that his was just as warm.

or perhaps, it was from the heat his body exuded whenever it touched yours. you felt flames on your cheeks from this thought and you took one last drag of your pipe, hoping that the nicotine would help.

it didn’t, because out of nowhere, he squeezed your hand.

the flame in your body burnt bright from your shared warmth.


	2. dream

the first time you touched a kitchen knife, you had flinched. not because you were afraid of sharps or wary of its potential to hurt.

you flinched because the cold steel felt like your own body, and yet a kitchen knife knew normalcy. it knew no abuse like you did (the only exception was whenever bamboo rice got the cutting duty—after breaking a few cleavers with his brute force, he was quickly relegated to lifting and shopping duties instead). it was a tool, yes, but you had seen how your attendant treated each kitchen utensil with so much care, with so much tenderness, as if they were her own children.

you wanted to be like that.

master attendant never quite cared for battling, and you, for one, were grateful that she never did. your body was weary from the abuse and you were ready to start living and stop dying. and if this was living, this was better than you imagined it would be.

you no longer flinched when you were in the kitchen now. you quickly became adept at handling various kitchen utensils, and master attendant trusted you enough to do the opening shift in the morning. you didn’t mind it, for you didn’t need that much sleep anyway (sweet tofu and red wine had lost this privilege after oversleeping a few schedules due to their nocturnal activities—pudding had been so livid that he flooded the washing basin with copious amount of caramel).

you were stirring a pot of minestrone when the other food souls who were assigned to brunch duty arrived. jello was already dressed in her apron, and she quickly took over the omelette station. nearby, omurice worked on slicing the breads for breakfast sandwiches. peking duck (who volunteered for brunch duty because he had to wake up early to take care of his ducklings anyway) hummed softly behind the bar, the plump teapots in front of him emanating smoky aroma from the lapsang souchong leaves he was steeping. pancake and pudding prepared the tables—the sound of eating utensils and cups clinking followed them as they made their rounds.

brownie sliced vegetables beside you. he was never one to talk much, but you enjoyed his company anyway. you observed the way he held the kitchen knife—like master attendant, he treated it with utmost care, holding it with such delicate touch such that the blade soundlessly sliced through rolls and rolls of lettuces and cabbages.

you found that you wouldn’t mind being held so delicately, so preciously like that.

the breakfast crowd started pouring in and you could hear pancake and pudding greeting the people. you could smell the sweet tea peking duck was brewing—sweet, smoky and heady, just like his tobacco pipe. jello flipped an omelette in the air and laughed. beside her, omurice egged her on, goading her to perform the tricks. she gleefully obliged.

you stopped stirring your minestrone and sprinkled a generous amount of salt and pepper into it as the finishing touch. you dipped a small spoon into the green slurry, scooping up a sample to taste. you offered it to brownie, who was still slicing vegetables beside you.

he took the soup gratefully, and you could see a smile on his lips, pressed against the metal spoon.

the memory of his smile stayed with you for nights to come. one time, you dreamt of brownie’s lips, pressed against the metals of your body.

and you almost overslept the next day.


	3. red

you adored dinner shifts. humans tended to dine lavishly for dinner, coming to the restaurant dressed in fancy suits and dresses, and those were treats to your eyes. the fact that your favourite drink featured heavily in most meal didn’t hurt either. you loved telling people about the differences between the bottles of red wines the restaurant had to offer, even if it meant hearing huffs and puffs from steak who would often think that you were just dawdling (as if you would dawdle—the ignorant swine never got tired of trying to pick a fight with you).

tonight, however, you adored it a little less than usual. the thing was, you could smell blood. you would know if there was an injury even before you saw it. and tonight, you smelled blood. warm, delicious blood.

and then you heard a curse from the grills, along with knife clanging on the floor.

hawthorne ball, bless her heart, almost dropped the skillet she was holding. a petrified scream came from jiuniang beside her—poor dear was already faint-hearted, and seeing blood was obviously one of the last things she signed up for when she agreed to help in the kitchen (she had picked the kitchen to avoid battlefield, and in her mind, the presence of blood straight out turned a kitchen into one).

you tossed the napkins you were holding aside and rushed to the kitchen. steak pressed his palms together, his fingers stained red, as if they were keeping up with the theme of his whole outfit. you recalled how he said that fiery red colours were always exciting—just another thing you both disagreed about, because you much preferred burgundy, thank you.

crab long bao had run to the storeroom to fetch a first aid kit box. you could hear toast and sandwich pulling down the shutter and locking the front door. the restaurant was supposed to open for dinner in half an hour, though you suspected that a delay was inevitable.

hawthorne ball and jiuniang managed to calm themselves enough to run outside to call master attendant. they almost collided with toast and sandwich on their way out, but both sprung out of the way in time. it turned out that being nimble always helped. you definitely didn’t want to deal with more casualties.

steak plopped down to one of the chairs, still applying pressure to his wound silently. you knew that he was mad at himself (from the way his horns twitched minutely). when crab long bao returned, you took over the first aid kit box from him. he was more than happy to not deal with injuries—not because he was scared of blood, but because he just couldn’t, for the life of him, handle anything delicately.

you recalled what milk and sweet tofu had taught you about mending wounds. alcohol, then dry gauze, then bandage. you lacked the healing magic they possessed, but there were numerous salves and potions inside the box.

it would be just fine.

or would it?

steak’s blood was dangerous for you. it smelled delicious, and its warmth made it more delectable. you held your breath when you swabbed the cotton ball soaked with alcohol against the gash. you could tell that steak did, too, from the way he tensed up.

it was a good thing you had been learning to restrain yourself around steak as of late. his blood held temptation, but you clung to your willpower. you focussed on the task at hand, eventually getting steak bandaged in record time. perhaps you should start learning healing magics from milk or sweet tofu. you might have some aptitude.

steak thanked you, a half-hearted smile on his face. you held his hand—his uninjured hand—and gave it a gentle squeeze.

and when he held yours back, you could feel his blood, flowing in the veins underneath his skin. it made you feel dangerously light-headed.

perhaps another casualty was inevitable after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for the comments and kudos! i hope you'll continue enjoying this self-indulgent writing!!
> 
> ps. if you have any pairing you want to see you can mention it in the comments and i'll see how i can include them in the story (i can't promise but i'll try to do my best!!)


End file.
